


Still Life With Dogs

by Mary_West



Series: The After War years of Lucius Malfoy [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drawing Room Comedy level., Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-03 23:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14007072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mary_West/pseuds/Mary_West
Summary: Lucius is injured, Narcissa has left him, and he and Draco have run out of money. Desperate times lead to desperate measures. After all, the dogs have to eat. From Livejournal's 2010 Lucius Big Bang.





	Still Life With Dogs

________________________________________

Chapter 1

________________________________________

"Explain."

"I thought it seemed fairly straightforward, Father. Scullfield and Brents will not extend any further credit to us, nor will they fulfil any orders, until we have lowered our rather massive account with them. "

"How massive?"

"More Galleons than we have hidden in the back room, and then some. Father, let's face it. We're broke."

Lucius Malfoy hoisted himself out of the solid wooden chair, and went to pace about the room. He would have had a far better chance of doing so if he hadn't managed to trip over one of the large and shaggy Irish Wolfhounds which customarily rested themselves beside the chair, and who had misinterpreted the movement as the prelude to a **WALK**! Between the yelp of the dog and the grunt of the wizard the moment was lost, and the dogs wisely fled while Draco helped his father back into his chair.

The normally dapper wizard was looking somewhat gaunt, and his face was grey and sweating. Since the final battle, where a couple of badly- (or well-) aimed hexes had hit him in the midst of it all, he hadn't been quite himself. His gait was staggered, and a constant low pain throughout his entire body had kept him from any form of useful task. And a Malfoy does not work. Oh no – no Malfoy had held anything but a sinecure for centuries, and a combination of skilful investment and marrying well had kept the family afloat. But now...

Lucius looked around at the frayed carpet, the shabby furniture and the drapes that still showed scorch-marks from a fateful day some months ago, when a certain formerly-employed house-elf had created chaos during a rapid getaway. Although the chandelier had had a reparo thrown on it shortly afterwards, the missing shards were evident by the gaps like lost teeth in the rows of crystal.

"You realise of course, Draco, that since your mother left things have not gone at all well."

Draco wisely refrained from commenting, although he too was painfully aware of the decline of Malfoy Manor since his mother had quit the house and the marriage. He visited her often in her stylish Belgrave apartment, and while the improvement in the atmosphere at home had been palpable, he felt her loss keenly. And it wasn't just the money. Narcissa's ability to run the house had kept the place together through the war, and since she had walked out and wanted nothing to do with Lucius any more, the spirit of the place had left it too. "Should I try another wine merchant? Verbene's isn't bad, and…"

"No, they'd just give the same answer. They are all very much aware of our situation." Lucius scowled at the empty decanter beside him and tried hard not to break it. "Draco, we need to face reality. Since I was dismissed from the Governorship of Hogwarts, and the Board of various useful organisations..." At this, Draco suppressed a snigger. Some of those organisations were solely for the continuation of various exclusive Wizarding clubs. No-one who had belonged to the _Upper Marlowe Gobstones and Galleons Group_ had actually touched a Gobstone in about fifty years. Lucius noticed his son's attempts to dissemble, and continued regardless. "As I was saying, my lack of current income is causing a liquidity crisis in this family, and as the head of the household, I must do something to alleviate the situation."

"You sound like that pinhead Percy Weasley."

"Draco? Shut up. Now, where was I?"

"Pontificating. Father, you're too ill to work for the moment, and I am not. So please don't try to be noble – you're in no fit state to do so. I'll have to find something to keep us going, or we'll lose the manor. " Draco winced at this, but his determined look silenced his father, who relaxed back into the cushions on the worn armchair and tried hard not to notice the pain in his back and guts.

"There has to be some place that wants a well-educated pure-blooded wizard still", Draco mused as he paced up and down the carpet. "I have a feeling the Ministry's out, but perhaps one of the newspaper offices, or a store…"

"Speaking of newspapers, maybe the Prophet has some advertisements." A shudder went through the tall man's frame, not entirely due to the cold draught that was stirring the dust bunnies under his chair. He spoke though to empty air as Draco had already divined this possibility and was heading out to send a hopeful owl for a subscription.

________________________________________

It took a few days of carefully-worded applications and some rather smart (hired) owls, but Lucius was aware a week later that Draco was up and leaving the house at an unmentionable hour, dressed rather smartly in the coat he had worn in his last years at school. It made Lucius feel old to have such a grown-up son, and this and the constant tiredness brought a surprising tear to his eye.

"An interview?"

"With a magical ingredients company, this morning. And another this afternoon with a wizarding book publisher. If any owls come for me while I'm out…" Draco smiled at his father's dismissive wave, and headed out hopefully.

Lucius looked around the room, at a loss now to find something he could do to ease the strain in the household. He tired easily, but he felt he could manage a little tidying, perhaps dusting the mantle or something of that ilk.

Draco _apparated_ back to the house entry at sundown, a hopeful look on his face and a folder under his arm. He looked around at the room, which was showing some signs of attention – the mail was in one pile rather than strewn about, and the floor had been swept. It was painfully obvious that Lucius's energy had given out at this point though. The broom was propped against the table and the pile of dust, dog hair and detritus was still sitting on the floor beside it. Draco swept up the pile into a sheet of newspaper, then levitated it into a nearby dustbin on his way through the hallway. It only took him a few seconds to trace his father to the study, where the careworn wizard lay asleep on the leather sofa.

An hour later Lucius was woken by the glorious scent of freshly-cooked tuna-and-pasta in front of him. He sat up and realised his son was standing in front of him with a loose cotton robe over his normally natty clothing, and an oven mitt holding a heated plate in his hand.

"I didn't want to put it on the desk. The plate's hot and it would damage the finish."

Lucius ran both his hands through his hair and tried to shake off the tiredness. "Cooking?"

"I start work tomorrow. The magical supply company needs clerical help, and they need me immediately. So I thought I'd celebrate by making dinner. "

Lucius hadn't realised how hungry he was, and dived onto the food thankfully. Draco smiled at the eagerness in his father, more than he had seen for a while, and realised that worry about the finances was part of the problem. He sat down opposite the older man, and went straight into it.

"Father, you were trying to help here, I know, but you're still weak. And the last thing we need now is for you to collapse. So it's lovely if you can do a little around the house, but please don't push yourself too hard. I'll be working myself, but with some money coming in we can afford to order in a few meals, and maybe look at getting someone to come and clean once a week." Lucius made a movement in denial, but Draco ploughed on. "I know that would cost, but it will cost more if you end up back in St Mungo's. Just for a while. Trust me on this."

Lucius swallowed his mouthful, and looked thoughtful for a moment. "Very well", he demurred. "I'll do a little but not too much. But I feel…" He paused, unwilling to admit the truth.

"Helpless." Draco nodded sagely, the cares of the past year having made him grow up at last. "Face it, Father. For years you and mother have supported me. For a little while, let me return the favour." He stood and left his father wondering when the man had replaced the boy, and why it had taken so long to notice.

________________________________________

Chapter 2

________________________________________

The change in circumstances was apparent after just a few days. Each morning Draco headed off through the _floo_ , and Lucius dressed and did a few minor chores around the house, being careful not to overdo things. By keeping the clutter and the scraps down to a minimum, things didn't look too bad at the end of the day. Lucius could fix himself a light lunch, and Draco organised for Mrs Harris, a local squib, to come in twice a week and do the worst of the heavy housekeeping. Draco's cooking skills weren't great, but they were bearable. (There was, of course, the memorable Tuna Surprise night. Draco had forgotten to buy more tuna). After a week of tuna and pasta though, Lucius was able to bestir himself once or twice to make dinner, and while his bacon-and-eggs offerings were not spectacular, they were certainly edible (and at least a change).

After three weeks, Lucius was able to rise at the same time as Draco and keep him company over breakfast, although the conversation was somewhat stilted. Lucius was attempting not to fall asleep face-first into his porridge and Draco would bury himself in the Prophet.

By the Thursday, Lucius was awake enough to stop his offspring on the way to the fireplace and steal his copy of the Prophet. Propping the pages against the coffee pot, Lucius munched his way slowly through some toast as he perused the recent news and views as provided by the best of the Ministry's lapdogs. He sneered wholeheartedly at the latest proclamations by Minister Shacklebolt (it felt good to be sneering again) and glanced briefly at the social notices. The society pictures of certain famous witches, wizards and other highfaluting types almost sent him into an apoplectic fit. He was so energised by this that when Draco came home, he was greeted by the smell of a home-baked casserole and the sight of a gleaming clean entrance where previously the dog hair had drifted like Puffskeins in the slightest breeze. While Draco gaped, Lucius came out from the kitchen in a smart black linen apron, two glasses of wine in his hands and a pair of very hopeful dogs beside him.

"The bills are paid?" Draco enquired politely, accepting the glass gratefully – it had been a horrid day.

"Not exactly." Lucius smiled wryly. "I was inspired to do a little more tidying, and I discovered your grandfather's secret stash. Only half the bottles are drinkable, but I think we have enough there to keep us going a few more months." He drank deeply from his own glass, the dark golden liquid swirling viscously. Draco took another sip, then a very appreciative draught, then raised his eyebrow at his father who passed the bottle from the table to his son. "45 year old Zerella's. A fraction past its prime, but certainly not to be sneezed at. Dinner will be about ten minutes."

The lamb casserole was more than passable, and Draco hadn't realised how hungry he was. A few lumps in the mashed potato were neither here nor there. Once his primary hunger was satisfied, he leaned back in his chair and sipped again at the aged wine. "Where in Merlin's name did you learn to cook, and where did you find that dapper apron? More importantly, what got into you today to do all this?"

Lucius grinned, invigorated by his success in the kitchen. "The apron came with the cookery book, which I found in a pile of rubbish in the back of the pantry. For some reason, about ten years ago your mother must have accepted some sort of a Muggle mail offer – goodness knows why. But as for the rest…" (At this he waved his hand in a gesture which encompassed the entire room), "I blame your choice in reading material."

"Mine?"

Lucius waved the Prophet, folded to a page that had not been improved by colour printing. "I had no idea that the fashion sense of the Wizarding world was so … Let us just say I was so horrified by what the average wizard thinks 'well-dressed' means, I had to do something." He shuddered, and drank deeply again. "And it felt good to be active, but I'll probably pay for it tomorrow."

"Perhaps you should write into the paper and protest," Draco laughed, delighted by the animation on his father's face. "Sign yourself as "Disgruntled in Wiltshire" and lecture them all on the fashion foibles of aging alchemists." Lucius raised an eyebrow at this, and Draco went on. "Remind them of the prestige a well-cut cloak can afford, or the elegance of an exquisitely-made jacket." At that, Lucius looked down at his apron and winced.

"You may have a point there. But for now, I do think I've reached my limit for the day. Is the washing up too much to ask, or should we leave it for Mrs Harris?"

"After a meal like that, I would consider it an insult not to wash up for the cook." Draco gathered up the nearly-spotless plates, and headed for the kitchen while his father headed straight for bed.

________________________________________

The next morning had the two men awake and alert at breakfast, and once more Lucius appropriated the Prophet as Draco headed for the _floo_. Draco emerged at an elegant fireplace in a tastefully-decorated apartment, into the arms of a well-dressed woman.

"You're looking wonderful, dear," Narcissa stated, giving her son a firm hug and dusting off a small ash particle that had settled on his coat. "The coffee's made, and would you care for dinner tonight?"

"Not tonight mother, but perhaps next week? Father has discovered your recipe card stash and would be disappointed if I didn't show. I can let him know in advance, though." Draco took the proffered coffee cup, and drank gratefully – he had drunk it at first to please her but now had a taste for the Muggle brew.

"That's a shame. But I'll take myself out somewhere nice. I'm getting quite used to these Muggle restaurants now." She smiled, and picked a hair off her son's shoulder. "This isn't one of yours – a colleague?"

Draco looked at the coarse strand. "That's horse-hair, mother. It must have caught on my jacket from work."

"You deal in horses?"

"Potion ingredients. They have so many different types. And there's a stuffed horse in the corner of the main office." Draco finished off his coffee, handed back the cup and kissed his mother goodbye.

From the front door of the terrace it should have taken Draco less than ten minutes to walk to work, but he took a rather circuitous route, ducking down back alleys and stopping in a doorway. Finally, he slipped from Ebury St into Carlton Place, and into the discreet front door of a very formal and established business.

________________________________________

Lucius finished a second cup of tea, and tried hard not to laugh at the Daily Prophet's latest pictures of _"The best dressed Wizards and Witches."_ Finally, need overcame weariness, and he summoned over parchment and a quill. The familiar scowl flashed over his face first, then a wicked smile slowly came across his features and he flexed his fingers in a manner that suggested that a large amount of writing was to follow.

An hour later a trembling hand laid down the quill. Lucius hadn't worked so hard since his NEWTS many long years ago, but he was far more pleased with his efforts now than he had been with those unimportant exams. There was a certain devilish air about him, and he summoned their remaining owl, attached the parchment to its leg and dispatched it to the offices of the Prophet with an imperious wave of the hand. These actions both energised and exhausted him, and his wounds ached as they had not done in some days, but he brushed off the looming exhaustion and managed to put together the ingredients of a slow-cooking stroganoff before collapsing for a short sleep. Luckily the stroganoff could cope with a long cooking time, because Lucius did not emerge from his slumber before his son returned from dinner.

Draco, looking somewhat haggard, saw his father asleep in his easy chair, and took one glorious sniff of the aroma of stroganoff. It didn't take an Auror to realise what had happened. He took a few moments after putting on the rice to have a wash and brush up, then once again woke his father with the sound of cutlery being placed on the table. Lucius woke refreshed and hungry, and smiled appreciatively at his son.

"Busy day?"

"I can't believe how tiring office work is. I spend all day sitting in a chair shuffling papers, but afterwards I'm more exhausted than if I'd been chasing the snitch for three hours. Is it always like that?"

"It must be. One hour writing, and I'm still shaking." He held up his hand which was indeed still trembling, though not so much that he couldn't then fork up some of the delightful dinner in front of him. "What did they have you doing? Writing up orders for soapwort? Quality assessments of dragon spleen?"

"Something like that" Draco responded a little cagily, although Lucius didn't notice. "Mainly chasing up old accounts. You have no idea how hard it is to get money out of people sometimes… sorry, Father." Lucius had looked up with an uncomfortable expression on his face. "Actually, we're not in such a bad state. I've learned so much about this from the firm. As long as we contact our creditors and let them know that we'll be paying our bills, and especially if we include something towards the total, they'll be fairly happy."

"My son the accountant." Draco flinched, but Lucius was looking at him proudly. "You're absolutely right. Perhaps we should go through the household papers this weekend."

"Perhaps" mumbled Draco, burying himself again in the dinner. One of the wolfhounds looked up hopefully at the pair, then resignedly settled down again, once more deprived of scraps as Lucius regained his appetite.

________________________________________

Chapter 3

________________________________________

Monday once more had the two men at the breakfast table. Lucius was just considering the wisdom of a lightly poached egg, and one of the dogs was starting to have designs on the plate of bacon Draco had made his father, when an exclamation by Draco caught his attention.

"Father! It looks like you're not the only one with a hatred of the current fashions!"

"Oh?" The eyebrow raised in what Lucius hoped was a suitably nonchalant inquiry.

"Listen to this - _Dear sir, I am so horrified by the thought that the scandalous images in this week's Prophet might truly be considered the epitome of style that I am compelled to write and let you know their effect upon 'normal' readers._ … 'normal' being in inverted commas. I wonder what he means."

"Do go on, Draco." Lucius sat back with a small smile of satisfaction. "It amuses me to hear some sanity." _It also amuses me to hear my own words being quoted_. He relaxed further into his chair and closed his eyes, the better to concentrate on Draco's voice.

_"Not since the Muggle-inspired 'hippie' days have such disparate and discordant concepts come together in the name of 'fashion'. I understand that skirt-hoops have made a reappearance after a century, but they add nothing to the grace and beauty of a female form and detract severely when united with undersized bolero jackets and psychedelically swirled hose._ 'Hose'? Oh – those stockings." Draco winced at the memory of the particular photograph which had shown a certain ex-schoolmate of his with her legs clad in something that hurt the eyes just to glimpse them. "You know, I do believe this writer has a point."

"Who is it?" asked Lucius, almost too casually.

"Bernard Grey of Pewseyvale. Not a name I recognise." Draco searched his mind for a moment until the sun struck the table and reflected off the milk jug into his eyes. "Merlin's Balls! I'm late!"

He almost threw the paper at his father, grabbed a handful of _floo_ powder, then turned back for a moment. "I shan't be home for dinner, Father. I'll see you later tonight." Lucius nodded in acknowledgement, and took up the paper as his son disappeared in a flash of flame.

It took him only a moment to turn back to the relevant page, and he re-read his own words in print with great satisfaction. His pleasure was not dimmed at all by the arrival of an unexpected owl, which flew in the side window and sat hooting on the chair beside his. He removed the professional-looking double-roll of parchment from its leg, and absentmindedly gave it the bacon from his plate while he unrolled the missive and read the first page, oblivious to the disappointed looks from the patient wolfhound who had had designs upon that rind.

_Dear Mr Grey_

_We are about to launch a "Wizards and Witches Home and Life" section in this publication, and, desirous of some male views to provide a balance, we would welcome your input in the form of a 400-500 word column twice weekly. Our usual rate per column is 20 Galleons, and we would appreciate your signature on the enclosed contract_

Years of wheeling and dealing had given Lucius a great deal of experience in this, and he promptly replied suggesting a figure ten times that which was offered, and a re-working of the terms. The owl left with no idea of the ruckus its cargo was going to cause...

The poor owl that brought the next offer from the Prophet's contracting team was looking rather frazzled, as if it had had to listen whilst waiting to a fair stream of invective. It hooted nervously and was more than a little relieved when Lucius read the terms being offered once more and only released a derisive snort at their contents.

"Four columns for less per word than they originally offered – they must think I'm Barnabas the Barmy. I'll teach their trolls to dance..." and, muttering as he went, he composed a final offer that left no doubt as to his expectations and remunerations. The owl, rested, took the weight of the parchment and was surprised by a gentle pat to the head.

"Do not take their words to heart, little one. I've merely given them the best fight they've had in aeons, and they will not take defeat lightly." This, alas, did nothing to calm the owl, and it hit the sill _and_ the window sash twice before it headed off into the late afternoon.

It was only then that Lucius remembered that his son would not be home for dinner. Mrs Harris had bustled around effectively during one of his contract-perusing periods, and had left him a cottage pie for lunch which he had completely forgotten. This, together with a bread roll, made a satisfactory early dinner, and better than dessert was the sight of the exhausted owl falling over the window sill, the words _Very well then_ written in rather grumpy letters showing on the edge of the parchment.

The final contract was all that Lucius had wished for: the original two columns per week, plus the additional joy of previewing the week's social pictures and choosing one to critique in his own style. Rita Skeeter had never had it so good, and Lucius would write all his own copy. He signed the final agreement and sent it back promptly, complete with a column he had prepared earlier after the arrival of the first owl.

________________________________________

Chapter 4

________________________________________

Draco had not been surprised that evening to be treated to a wonderful dinner at his mother's apartment, nor had the suggestion of a walk to a local coffee shop been unexpected either. What was a shock, though, was the man who met them there and ushered them to a cosy booth in the corner.

"Draco, I assume? Heathcote Barbary." Draco was fairly sure he had seen the Wizard who was shaking his hand in some other setting, and wondered why, if they were all wizards, they weren't meeting in Diagon Alley or somewhere else in the magic side of town. He turned to his mother to ask, but was silenced by the look of animation on her face, a look he hadn't seen for many years.

"We met at an art gallery, darling. A Muggle gallery, where Heathcote had some pieces for sale. I was trying to work out why the scene in one picture seemed familiar when I realised it was Hogwarts, so I knew he must have been there too."

"You were at Hogwarts?" Draco couldn't place him, until the other man pushed his slightly overlong hair back. "Of course! You're one of the Weird Sisters! You played there in my fourth year."

"Guilty as charged. Of course, the band's my main calling, but I've found a certain other talent that keeps me occupied while we wait for the next album to come out. And it's always nice to have one's talents recognised." Heathcote smiled and raised his coffee cup to Narcissa, who smiled back in a way that made Draco's hackles rise.

"Mother, if you'll excuse me, I do need to get home. Father hasn't been well, and besides, someone has to take the dogs for their night-time walk." He pushed his chair back from the table, and took out his wallet. "But please, let me pay for my share. There are some shreds of pride left in the Malfoy family." Draco's ten pound note whispered down, but it might have been slammed for the start Narcissa gave and the flush in her cheeks.

He stalked out and headed not for her flat, but towards Charing Cross Road and the Leaky Cauldron. It wasn't more than fifteen minutes before he was walking up to the bar, scowling and being given a wide berth by the other patrons.

"A large firewhiskey and a shot of Floo Powder," he snapped at Tom, who looked up at the young man with surprise. The look on Draco's face precluded any comments, though, and he merely placed an empty glass in front of the wizard and proceeded to fill it. Beside it he placed a twist of paper filled with powder. Draco hesitated and pulled out his wallet.

"Short of wizarding money?" Tom queried, sliding the powder back towards himself.

"Hang on a moment" Draco muttered, then reached down the bottom of one pocket and pulled out a stray Galleon. "Forgot to have any exchanged this week."

"I can exchange if you're really caught."

"Yeah, at a 'special' rate. I'm not that desperate yet, Tom." Draco tossed off the drink then took the package. "Don't worry about the change."

He disappeared into the fireplace opposite, and Tom muttered to himself – Draco's generosity had been for a total of one Sickle.

________________________________________

Arriving at home, Draco was mobbed by the dogs whose appetites had not yet been dealt with; he had just finished avoiding their slobber as he fed them ( _Bawings Dry Food for Dogs. Guaranteed to give them that magic shine_ ) when an owl sped through the window, dropped a letter in front of him and then took off as if the banshees were after it. Draco looked at the letter in surprise, then groaned as he realised it was from his mother.

_I do apologise for not warning you about Heathcote in advance. Your behaviour, though, was extremely disappointing and verged on utterly rude. I assume you arrived home safely, but next time I expect at the least civility. I will see you tomorrow for coffee. Mother._

_The least I could expect,_ he thought to himself. _At least it wasn't a Howler._ And, harnessing up the beasts, he headed out into the cool evening and endured being dragged around the boundaries of the property.

________________________________________

The years following the War had been one of gaiety and celebration, and it was painfully obvious that a large number of the survivors had taken this to be a licence to party, and party hard. And it was also very obvious that many of them had little or no concept of the idea of "style." Their outfits might be said to rival those worn by wizards attempting to blend in with the Muggles, and would have been considered outlandish even on the most avant-garde fashion model.

This, of course, was Lucius' bread and butter. Or at least it would be, once his first payment came through. The one condition he hadn't been able to negotiate was that all payments would be made at the end of the month, and he'd just missed the cut-off for the first one. As he wrote, visions of a few small luxuries floated in his mind and kept him inspired with invective. The first two columns went off with some trepidation, but were published in their entirety, and by the third he had attracted something of a fan base. Letters to the editor mentioned "Bernard Grey of Pewseyvale" as being "a refreshing change" and "the voice of reason." This inspired Lucius to greater heights, and his scathing review of the outfit worn by Ms Lavender Brown resulted in tears from the young lady and a series of Howlers from her admirers. Lucius found this rather tiresome, and when the third one had exploded and startled the sleeping dogs, he arranged for an owl redirection service to intercept all the mail sent to "Bernard Grey" and weed out the unwanted deliveries. His literary appetite was whetted by this interaction, though, and he raised the cynicism levels from _"Uncomfortable"_ to _"Blistering."_

The mental activity had the added bonus of driving Lucius to more physical pursuits, and he started taking gentle strolls around the grounds, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine. The colour had returned to his cheeks, and although he still limped a little, his grace and posture were close to their pre-war levels. His strength however still needed some work, as he discovered the first time he took the wolfhounds out for a walk around the perimeter of the estate. Within minutes the beasts had torn the leash from his hands, and had bounded in glee towards the ill-kept pond at the end of the property. It was probably a blessing that there were no visitors to the Malfoy estate these days, else half an hour later they would have seen the author of "Bernard's Wizarding Wardrobe" covered in a thick layer of noisome mud staggering towards the house, dragging behind him two very eager-looking sludge-covered dogs who were still trying to get back to the pond. Draco arrived home quite late that night to find the trail of muddy footprints along the hall, an incredibly grotty bathtub, two very soggy but clean dogs huddled miserably in front of the fire, and his father asleep face-first on the floor of the master bedroom clad only in a bathrobe.

The next morning, a Saturday, saw a very sore and sorry Master of the Manor at breakfast admiring a colourful bruise across his forearm that disfigured the faded Dark Mark into something unrecognisable. Draco winced at the deep scratch across the middle of the muscle.

"Whatever happened to you?"

"Draco, one of these days we really must drain the pond. And clear the blackberries. And bring back the old dog-walking device we used to have. I'm really not up to this yet."

A large and furry chin placed itself on Draco's knee. Draco absent-mindedly scritchled the dog's ears as he looked over his father's wounds.

"Dog-walking device?"

"Oh, your great-uncle invented one. We'd tried having the house-elves walk the dogs, but they weren't nearly strong enough to keep the beasts under control. So the device conjured the illusion of a sausage just in front of the dogs, and they would chase that instead. It would direct them around the property, and then bring them to the back door when they were tired. You don't remember it?"

Draco patted the dog at his side and looked thoughtful. "Was that a red leather harness? I think I tried to use it on Nymphadora once when she was showing off transforming."

Lucius laughed at this, and shook his head in deprecation at his offspring's activities. "That would be it. A shame, because your aunt Andromeda then destroyed it."

"But didn't you still have Dobby walking the dogs? I have a vague memory of him being dragged behind the Great Danes we had when I was young."

"Well, yes." Lucius smiled at the memory of the house-elf being dragged uncontrollably through several brambles and deep puddles as the dogs ran pell-mell after the illusionary sausage.

"But if you had the walking harness, why did you still need Dobby to hold them?"

Lucius looked puzzled, as if he didn't understand the question, and applied himself to his tea and toast. The other wolfhound sat obediently beside him, hoping for a dropped crust, and the hot breath on Lucius's thigh started to annoy him.

"Draco?"

"Hmmm?" Draco was holding a bacon rind and had glanced at the dog near him.

"Please don't feed the dogs at the table. Their discipline has slipped shockingly since your mother left, and I don't want to encourage them."

"Oh very well." Draco reached for the copy of the Prophet sitting nearby, but almost lost a finger as the snake-headed cane whacked down to claim it first. "This reminds me, mother has asked if I'll join her for lunch today. And I think I'll have a look around the West End too. I'll see you tonight for dinner."

Once more Lucius waved his son farewell from behind the pages of the Prophet. When the multi-coloured flames of the Floo had died down though, he looked a little furtively around and then tossed his remaining bacon to the dogs, who managed not to look too smug as they devoured it in a flash. Lucius wiped his fingers on his napkin and turned immediately to his Saturday column, where he had this week made extremely scathing comments about the pixie-cut now being worn by one of the better-known younger witches in the Ministry.

"Foolish girl," he muttered as he perused the rest of the photographs. "Next you'll be wearing chequered raincoats and pretending you're a model." He took note of the upcoming social functions, then settled back with undisguised pleasure to read the angry responses to his columns.

________________________________________

Chapter 5

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Mother?"

Draco received no answer, but quickly noticed and read the note that had been left for him on the coffee-room table.

_Dear Draco, I had an appointment for breakfast, but I'll meet you for lunch at the little Italian place in Tennant St. Please be punctual. Love, Mother._

He cursed, and headed off towards his office. Heading in the side entrance (the front door was locked on the weekends), he stole past the front desk and up to the main office. There, he settled behind his desk, and sighed at the large numbers of pink ribbons festooning his overdue work.

Three hours later he placed the last invoice in the tray, then looked at the clock and cursed. Alas, just as he was standing up and putting on his jacket, a voice drifted out from the manager's office behind him.

"Malone? Are you up to date now? And have you finished with the Yoshiji case? Come and see me – we have plans to work on."

Draco swore again under his breath and turned towards the manager's office, grabbing a folder that sat at the edge of his desk marked "Friday Launch." He hoped his mother would forgive him for being late, because he surely would be. Very, very late.

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"I'm afraid I'll be working back tonight," Draco announced the next Friday morning as he headed for the fireplace. "There's a work function, and my manager wants me to help with the logistics. The launch of some new line in Nogtail trotters, I think."

"I'll manage," responded his father. "Do you want me to keep some dinner aside for you?"

"No thanks. Mother wants to feed me. She worries I'm starving." Draco grimaced, feeling the waistband of his smart trousers cutting in very slightly due to the bachelor diet the men had followed for the past little while. "I should probably get some exercise, though. Don't wear the dogs out while I'm gone."

Lucius laughed wryly, and rubbed his still-sore forearm. He didn't comment on his son's plans, though, as they fitted perfectly with his own. For once, he had been asked to review an event from the very rooms themselves, and he didn't expect to be back early either. He finished his breakfast (the last slice of toast being donated to a pair of worthy furry recipients) and headed for his bedroom to review his own outfit for the evening.

A few minutes sufficed to find a well-cut suit and elegant cloak, but a moment later Lucius realised his folly. _Showing up as myself will completely give the game away. Bother. Bernard Grey will need a completely different look._

It took another hour to unearth a suit that reflected an older yet dignified era, something that would suit the personality. Strangely, while he wrote the columns, Lucius had had in mind a gentleman who had been the height of elegance and taste in the 1920s; something of a Wooster or Wimsey, aged gracefully and still dapper. The suit he retrieved from the bottom of an old chest was exactly that, having been worn by his grandfather during a gentler time. Luckily, Lucius was close enough in size to fit the suit well, and he admired his image in the mirror. A few carefully-cast transfiguration charms softened the aquiline features and shortened the hair to the slicked-back parted style that matched the suit.

"Adequate. Suitable. And not at all me." He removed the suit and the charms, and dressed again to find Mrs Harris. She was putting together some sandwiches for him, and kindly agreed to press the suit and lay it on his bed that afternoon – fifty years in a camphorwood chest had left a few wayward creases in it, and Bernard Grey could not appear dishevelled at all.

He realised that he still had a column to finish for the afternoon deadline, so he sat at the dining table with his sandwiches and a cup of pumpkin juice, and applied himself to the destruction of Porpentina Scaramander's self-worth, with specific reference to the outfit she had undoubtedly worn at her own debut and was now attempting to wear at her granddaughter's. Some time later, he was finishing up the last incisive paragraph when the twinges of hunger started up. Lucius wasn't surprised – since he had started working and walking he had found his appetite sometimes demanded afternoon tea as well as lunch. Unfortunately, Mrs Harris had long since bid him good day as she left, and a quick check in the kitchen showed that there was only a stale crust and a packet of cornflour in the cupboard.

"Drat!"

He headed back to his room and the money pouch on the dresser, but the small pile of knuts and sickles held within would have been more suited for the Weasley vault than a Malfoy's purse. Lucius decided that for once, his son owed him.

Draco's room was not much changed from the last time Lucius had looked in several months ago. Mrs Harris had hung the freshly ironed shirts on the wardrobe door and folded the other laundry onto the bed. Lucius knew his son kept his funds in a small box on the dresser, next to the brushes that had been a present from Narcissa on his fourteenth birthday. The money box was unlocked, and the lid slightly raised as if it was unable to contain all the money within, which indeed proved to be the case. The money, however, was paper.

Notes.

Lucius pawed through to the bottom of the box, and only once he had emptied it out did he realise that there wasn't a single bit of real money in it. Twenty and ten-pound notes drifted across the top of the dresser, and knobbly fifty-pence pieces fell out from between the notes. He saw one golden coin and grabbed it, only to find it was a one-pound coin rather than a Galleon.

"By Merlin's large and pendulous... Where the hell did he get all of this?" Lucius piled all the money back into the box, then hesitated and took out two twenty-pound notes.

Twenty-five minutes later, residents of the nearby village of Wilton were vaguely curious to see a tall and distinguished looking man walking a pair of Irish Wolfhounds down the road, and apparently having a little trouble controlling them. They pulled him left and right, and it was only through some determined counter-leaning that he kept them from chasing across the road and towards a cat perched on a nearby fence. He did manage though to make it to the front of the local shop, where he tied the dogs' leash to a convenient bus stop and headed in.

"Oh hello there, dearie! Fancy seeing you here!" Mrs Harris was just leaving, and waved at the wizard before heading out the door. The shopkeeper, a sour-faced man in a grubby dustcoat looked Lucius up and down before uttering a surly "Yeah?" to Lucius's inquiring look.

"Bacon, please, and a bottle of milk. And perhaps some biscuits."

The shopkeeper snorted in a very rude manner. "We ain't had bottles of milk here since forever, but I can get you a carton. One litre or two?"

Lucius felt very out of place, and was not at all sure what a litre was, but responded in the manner he knew best. Drawing himself to his full height, he looked down the length of his aristocratic nose and proclaimed "One." The shopkeeper froze, immediately straightened up, and bustled around being much more diligent than his usual attitude suggested was possible. Within moments, a packet of bacon, a packet of shortbread and a carton of milk stood on the counter.

"Will that be all …. sir?" stammered the shopkeeper. Lucius pondered a moment, then was reminded by a yelp from outside of the other need.

"Dog food. What do you have? I only want the best."

"We've got that _Precious Paws_ brand, sir. It's supposed to be good for them, and Mrs Fullaghar up at the Hall won't buy anything else for her little ankle-biter." The shopkeeper put a can in front of Lucius, and it was all that the tall blond could do not to burst into laughter. The container was about the size of a tin of sardines. He had a quick mental vision of himself on the floor of the kitchen, twenty empty tins discarded around him, and the two wolfhounds inhaling the contents of yet another tin and then menacing him for more.

"No, I'll need something more substantial. Never mind – I'll cope with the dry food for a while yet. That will be all." Lucius gestured at the goods, which the shopkeeper gathered up and placed in a bag. He handed over a note, then restrained himself from examining the change returned. As Lucius headed outside he cursed when he saw the hounds had completely tangled up their leashes.

Another ten minutes passed before he had the dogs released from their temporary bondage. He'd had to untangle one, tie it to another nearby pole then return to the second. It was as he was gathering up the leads and the shopping bag that he realised the biscuits were gone, and one dog was looking rather satisfied. The language used at that point was not that which suited the elegant clothes and normal attitude of the senior Malfoy.

Lucius staggered back up the hill, pulled in some measure by the dogs, and let himself in the front gate of Malfoy Manor. Any Muggles coming past would have seen him walking through the crumbling front gate of the tumble-down old ruin on the hill, courtesy of the still-working charms that kept it from non-Magical view. As such, it didn't have a letterbox at the front, but luckily the delivery owl found Lucius on the drive rather than awaiting him at the door of the Manor. The owl was carrying his Portkey for the evening's function, and he slipped it into his shopping bag and staggered up the drive to the front door, cursing the necessity that had taken him so far on a day when he would need all his strength for the evening. Maybe a short rest before the evening's activities...

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Chapter 6

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The snore of a dog woke Lucius from what was supposed to be a short afternoon sleep. Outside, it was definitely dusk. The sleepy-headed wizard leapt from the bed and startled both the hounds, who were sprawled across the bed enjoying the warmth of the room and the chance to sneak onto forbidden territory. The clock in the main room struck six, and he realised he had about an hour to get dressed and arrive at the function, which was to be the launch of a new talent in the Wizarding Art World. Lucius used more completely inappropriate terms, and was dressed, charmed and through to the Leaky Cauldron floo before he remembered the Portkey.

"No great worry," he mused. "I used to know my way around, and it shouldn't take too long." With great confidence he strode out into the London street.

Ten minutes later he was re-thinking his strategy. As far as he could remember, the gallery was close to South Kensington station, and it wasn't far to walk from the Leaky Cauldron to Leicester Square. It was the _noise_ and the steepness of the escalator, and then remembering how to use the system that were so baffling. Luckily, his disguise meant that a passer-by took pity on him.

"New to London, luv?"

Lucius paused, and his young female helper took this as the confusion of an elderly gentleman overwhelmed by the technology.

"Here you are – just choose your ticket. Got some cash?" She pointed to the coin slot on the ticket machine, and he pulled out his money-purse. "Where are you going?"

"South Kensington, I believe."

She pressed the appropriate buttons, he fed in the coins, and next thing she had taken his arm and was helping him to the barriers. The train came in as they arrived on the platform, and she elbowed her way through the commuters, pulling Lucius behind her. The carriage was warm and full, but his unasked-for assistant was in her element, and strode up to a torn-denim-clad youth who was humming to himself as he listened to his CD player. With excellent aim, she kicked the lad's shin just where the leather on his Doc Martin boots was the thickest, and stood over him as he spluttered with indignation.

"Whaddaya want, you bitch?"

"None of that talk, you long-haired git. Get yourself up and give your seat to this old gentleman. He needs it more than you."

Lucius would have demurred, but she wasn't having any rubbish. The lad was ejected from the seat, and she helped Lucius into it with the care one associates with things precious and fragile.

"You'll be right now, love. I'm getting off at Hyde Park Corner, but you'll want two stops after that." She turned to the rest of the occupants. "Anyone here getting off at South Kensington can help this gentleman?"

A black man in a smart suit squeezed through the crowd. "I'm getting off there – I'll look after you." He smiled at Lucius, who _was_ feeling quite exhausted by the day's activity and the unexpected exertions. _Dammit,_ he thought. _I must get my strength back._ His first rescuer waved cheerily as she headed out at her station, and his subsequent assistant smiled and waved back. He then turned back to Lucius.

"Hi – I'm Eric. You're not used to the Tube?"

"I don't come to London very often" Lucius felt every year of the age he looked. "But it's a special function."

"Night out? I'm off to a do in Pelham place. Where are you going?"

"It's a gallery on Fulham Road. Near Sydney Close."

"Oh, very swish! I used to work near there – I'm in advertising." Eric smiled, and thought for a moment. "Shouldn't take you more than ten minutes to walk that, even if you do take it slowly. And here's our stop!"

Lucius submitted to be assisted out of the train and to the escalators. At the Pelham Street exit, his helper walked him across the road, and then looked at him with concern.

"Do you know your way from here?"

Lucius performed a silent _"whichway"_ charm and noted the flash of light down Onslow Square. "I'll be fine, thank you. And you go and enjoy your party."

"And you yours." With a smile and a wave, Eric headed off, still slightly worried about leaving the nice old man to make his own way.

Lucius took it slowly, and also took the time to observe the people passing. It was a mild summer's evening, and the streetlights were quite bright. Passers-by took little notice of the elderly gentleman making his way down the road, and he found great amusement in seeing the occasional specimen as badly dressed as the subjects of his tirades. Torn trousers seemed to be in vogue, as were swirly shirts, high clomping boots and split skirts. The one thing he did enjoy, though, was the re-emergence of corsets on the occasional black-clad female, usually teamed with black hair and unusual piercings.

"No wonder young Nymphadora attracted no attention" he muttered to himself as he turned into the address. A crowd of well-dressed people were milling around on the balconies, and as he entered the doorway he was not surprised to be asked his name.

"Bernard Grey. Pewseyvale. I'm writing for the Prophet," he informed the smartly-dressed young lady with the clipboard. She looked down at the list, then up at him and smiled broadly.

"You're especially welcome, Mr Grey. I'm Miranda Russell. Our artist is looking forward to your opinions. I have special instructions to take you to Theodore Murray, the sponsor of the evening, if you will allow me?" She handed her clipboard to a companion, took Lucius's arm and guided him inside.

Miranda gently led Lucius up the wide marble stairs and into a large reception room, filled with people beautifully dressed and circulating while holding champagne flutes. Lucius recognised quite a few faces from the wizarding world, and wasn't surprised when a door at the side opened and he caught the telltale blue swirl of a Portkey's glow as another person arrived.

"Some of our guests are making use of the other entrance at the back. Although I'm surprised how many of them find it more convenient." Miranda gestured towards the door. From the curiosity on the faces of the latest arrivals (and the lack of distaste) he gathered his disguise was working, and he suppressed the urge to smirk. She led him up to the centre of the room, where a portly Muggle in a Saville Row suit stood with a tall young man with shoulder-length dark hair and dressed in a Bohemian style.

"Mr Grey, may I introduce to you Mr Theodore Murray, the sponsor of this evening's function and of the artist, and Heathcote Barbary whose art we are showing? Mr Murray, Mr Barbary, this is Bernard Grey from the _Daily Prophet_." Her training gave her the ability to accept all the strange people who had turned up at the Gallery who were from places and publications she had never heard of, but truth to tell, she'd had worse. At least it wasn't as outlandish as the launch of _"Spice World."_

Theodore Murray, who looked as if he would be far more at home in a horsehair wig, looked over the critic of whom he had been warned. While he wasn't familiar with the Daily Prophet, he realised that there were other publications outside the _Daily Telegraph_ and _"Waterlog – The World's Finest Angling magazine"._ He did know however that keeping the critics happy was a major part of being a sponsor. The head of a prestigious Chambers, he had decided some years before to extend his financial dealings into entrepreneurial excursions in the art world. He'd had some success with Antonia Firebrace, a portrait painter who rendered people as vegetables, and had gladly accepted the recommendation of a friend in Westminster to try Barbary. He had also taken seriously his friend's warning that Barbary was "not our usual artistic type – from quite a different sort of people", and assumed this meant either a member of the Mafia or a Gypsy of some sort. This meant that he was pleasantly surprised when the "other sort" that turned up were well-dressed, well-behaved and seemed to have quite a lot of money. Probably Mafia. He could live with that.

"Mr Grey – it's an honour." Murray shook Lucius's hand. "Barbary, Mr Grey is quite influential, I believe." Miranda quietly withdrew.

"Oh, I know." Barbary shook Lucius's hand without a flicker of recognition. "I've read your column, and consider myself lucky that I haven't been a target of yours."

"Then you will have to show me your work. I am capable of saying complimentary things, but only when the subject deserves it."

"And you had better be able to prove it too, Mr Grey, or my staff will be acting on Barbary's behalf for any libel suits." Murray held his lapels as if he was giving evidence in court, and the three laughed politely.

"Then do tell me what you think." Barbary waved his hand towards his work, and Lucius noted the brooding renditions of Hogwarts, the dark paintings of mountains, and a rather well executed pen-and-ink drawing of Kings Cross Station.

They were talking quietly about the changes that had been mooted in the Kings Cross layout with the privatisation of the Muggle railways, when a rustle of silk beside them made Lucius start.

"And who is this?" said a sweet voice he hadn't heard in months.

"Dearest, let me introduce you to Bernard Grey from the Daily Prophet." Barbary put his arm around the beautiful and elegantly-dressed woman beside him, and brought her around to face Lucius. He struggled to keep his face straight as he looked into the eyes of his ex-wife, who searched the face in front of her.

"I feel as if we've met before. You seem so … I should know you."

Lucius coughed, realising that she would recognise his voice immediately. Mr Murray started, and turned immediately to the crowd.

"A drink! Quickly! Mr Grey needs a drink! Where is that worthless clerk of mine?" He pushed through a knot of people who had loitered near to hear what the famous critic had to say, and grabbed the dark-clad sleeve of a young man bearing a tray of glasses.

The tray and the bearer were quickly brought in front to Lucius, who took a glass and drank deeply. Then, as he lowered the glass, his eyes met those of the tray-bearer – as familiar to him as his own. His own start, though, passed unnoticed with the exclamation that came from beside him.

_"Draco!"_

"Mother!" Draco held the tray so tightly that it rattled, the glasses in dire danger of tipping over.

"But... what?"

"Malone? What is the meaning of this?" thundered Murray. "This woman is your mother? I thought you said your parents were dead!"

Draco looked at his employer in terror. Narcissa looked at Draco with shock, the facts starting to fall into place.

"A lawyer? You're working for a _Muggle lawyer?" / ___

__Draco looked from his employer to his mother, then in desperation to the man he had brought a drink to. He was about to make some sort of appeal, anything, when he recognised the cane the critic was leaning on._ _

___"Father?"_ _ _

__"LUCIUS?" Narcissa looked at the suit, the cane, the face and the hair._ _

__Many Muggle comedies have had moments like these as their denouement, but the drawing room comedy needed only one further addition to render it into a farce. As Lucius stood there, the facts of Muggle money in his son's room and his son's sudden knowledge of accounting matters coming together, he became aware of a disturbance in a room to the side._ _

__A large disturbance._ _

__A noisy, fluffy pair of four-footed disturbances._ _

__Approximately thirty seconds before, just as Lucius had taken his glass, his earlier purchase of bacon had been discovered. Unfortunately, the bag that held the bacon had also held the Portkey to the event. The wolfhounds, always hungry, disdaining the Bawings Dry Food that had been left for them, had reached the bacon and were fighting over it. Both touched the Portkey at once._ _

__They now found themselves in an unfamiliar small room, with strange smells and NO BACON! So they'd started heading for the whiff of familiar smell they could detect outside the room._ _

__Within seconds, they had barged through the door and into the large room. Tongues slobbering, they bounded past the other guests, throwing themselves at Draco and Lucius. After all, the older Master still smelled the same, even if he did look different. One hound knocked the tray from Draco's hands, and its contents splashed over Theodore Murray, Heathcote Barbary and a number of the other guests. The other, remembering the Mistress (although forgetting her strict disciplinary methods) reared up and placed its large (and slightly muddy) paws on her dress, licking her face in thrilled remembrance._ _

__The room was in uproar. Wait staff were trying to clean Murray's coat, and sweep up the glass before anyone could step in it. Taking fast advantage of the chaos and praying there weren't any other reporters from the Prophet present, Lucius grabbed his son, his dogs and his wife, and dragged them back into the side room. He slammed the door, checked that the exit to the side alley was also closed, then _Apparated_ the group as quickly as he could._ _

__The moment the dogs hit the rug beside the fireplace, they wrenched themselves from Lucius's grasp and barged off to the kitchen and the neglected bacon. Lucius himself staggered over to his chair, and slipped the charms off his face and hair. Draco grabbed the mantelpiece for support, and Narcissa collapsed onto the rug. There was a pause, then Draco started laughing, and Narcissa followed. Once the foolishness of the situation hit him, Lucius joined in, and it took several minutes before they could speak again._ _

__"I suppose you've been going to work for that Muggle all these weeks?" Narcissa asked. "Drinking my coffee and letting me think you were working for a Potions company?"_ _

__"I'm not sorry, mother." Draco brushed a little dog hair off his jacket, and then turned to her with a resolute face. "We needed some money, and there are far worse jobs to be had. And at least I wasn't writing for the Prophet!" He turned to face his father, who had the stubborn Lucius look fixed on his face._ _

__"And what is so wrong with that? You seemed to like it when you read it out to me." He set the end of his cane on the floor in front of him, and rested his hands on top of it. "And it's not like I've been amusing myself with a man young enough to be my son."_ _

__"I was furthering his career," blushed Narcissa. "And I do believe I'm the one person in this who at least has been honest enough to be who I am, and not some aging roué or earnest young Muggle." She pushed herself to her feet, and tried to clean the pawprints off her bodice. "I really should be going. But I have two things to say."_ _

__The two men looked at her, each bracing for the worst, although neither of them sure what the worst could be._ _

__"Lucius, I think your writing is brilliant. I don't know why you didn't start it long ago, and I shan't be giving away your identity. I shall even have a quiet word to Barbary. As long as you are fair in your assessment of his work, he'll not unmask you. I'm not asking for glowing falsehoods, but acknowledge that the man has _some_ talent."_ _

__Lucius searched for something to say, but Narcissa went on._ _

__"Draco, I am very proud of you. You've knuckled down and taken on a job that I don't think you're enjoying, and you've managed so well. I can forgive you for working for a Muggle, although I'll have to think very hard whether a lawyer is at all respectable. But you've grown up, and I can tell you're my son. Will I see you for dinner on Monday?"_ _

__Draco nodded, and Lucius rose to his feet and bowed to his ex-wife._ _

__"Narcissa, my dear, I don't think I've ever seen you looking lovelier or more self-assured than you were just then. And thank you for your words – I know you were being candid. I shall do as you ask." He held out his hand, she placed hers in his, and he kissed her fingers. "You always were magnificent. Perhaps we could renew the acquaintance?"_ _

__"Perhaps," she countered. He escorted her to the fireplace, where she kissed Draco and then Lucius on the cheek. "Perhaps you could both come to breakfast on Monday. I'll expect you at eight."_ _

__She took a handful of Floo powder and headed off in a flare of green flames. The dogs came through from the kitchen at the sound, and looked hopefully at the two wizards._ _

__"Draco?"_ _

__"Go to bed, Father. I will walk these ungrateful creatures, and we should talk in the morning."_ _

__"Perhaps."_ _

__Lucius looked at his son, hesitated, then patted his shoulder. The pat became a hug. The two men stood there before the fire, holding each other, until a soggy cold nose insinuated itself between them._ _

__"In the morning then, Draco."_ _

__And Lucius turned towards his room, and Draco headed out into a cool and damp evening, dragged behind two full and frisky wolfhounds._ _


End file.
